


like the tears of a saint

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Internal Monologue, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Single POV, finally wrote a long crowley-centric fic thank u god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: crowley struggles with his feelings. he's not alone in his longing as he thinks he is
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 37





	like the tears of a saint

**Author's Note:**

> im paying crowley one dollar a day to love himself

There's soft heat in his stomach. Burning anew for the first time since his fall. A pleasant, unfamiliar warmth. He'd forgotten how to feel something comfortable. Being torn from light itself - from all things holy - has that effect on a person. His companions have grown bitter, feasting on their anger. Pulling more from the roots of descent, and dragging themselves back up to Earth by foot and claw. So long as they're furious, they can keep getting stronger. Building some of the power they've lost.

But Crowley isn't as angry as them. If anything, he's still sore from his landing. It had hurt. Falling, that is. And he should be cursing God for it. He should be crying out to her with a vengeful ferocity, shaking his fist to the sky above. But he doesn't. He doesn't - because what's the point in that? He can't see any reason to it. Better to make good of what he has, instead of dwelling in hopeless misery. If he's set out to be a tempter, then he'll tempt better than any creature has seen before. And if he's meant to do bad, then he'll be as bloody awful as he has to be. That's the nature of things, now. No use in fighting it.

At least, that's what he'd believed before.

Truthfully speaking, seeing an angel ought to to incite something vicious in him. There's a train of thought padding around in the back of his head, running circles as it screams at him to lash out, bite, claw and hiss until he brings his opponent down, even if in the most bestial way possible. That's all an angel's ever going to see him as, anyways. An animal, filthy to the core. Entrenched in sin, with it sticking to his very soul like mud. But Crowley's forced to hesitate. It's not that there's nothing in him which resents the angels for giving his kind up to the Almighty's whims - no, no he _certainly_ does more than resent - it's just that, for whatever reason, this angel doesn't inspire that notion.

Their first conversation is tense, awkward - but Crowley picks up on something nervous from the angel, and it all flows easier from there. Aziraphale, as he soon learns is his name, stands tall as a royal example of how far Heaven has fallen from its previous warriors. Back when Crowley was first pushed out, they were nothing short of _malicious._ Purposely seeking out the parts to strike which hurt the most, and justifying themselves all the while. Touting their status as the result of clean morals, and pure virtue. God loves them because they _deserve_ her love.

But Aziraphale is different. Aziraphale hardly knows how to handle his own sword. And the words come bubbling out faster than he can stop them. He gave it away. More than that, he's given it away, and now he's more than willing to go about tattling on himself to the enemy. It's not like he's defenseless without it, or anything of that sort. But still, Crowley has a definite advantage here. That being, that he seems to be the only person with a hint of brains between them. Truly, what kind of angel stands unguarded before a demon, letting them know they've deprived themselves of their only weapon? It's ridiculous. Aziraphale is utterly ridiculous. And Crowley finds he's quite fond of him for it.

He'll make an amusing associate, at the very least. Considering they'll both be stuck down here for a while, they're bound to run into one another more often than not.

The rain starts, and Aziraphale stretches his wings. Crowley seeks out shelter via huddling under them, and the angel makes no attempt to stop him.

The soft heat quivers forwards again.

-

As it turns out, his original assumption was incorrect. He _doesn't_ run into Aziraphale that often. Their second meeting only occurs by chance. Crowley takes notice of a familiar shape amongst the many onlookers gathered in a crowd. White, clean linen shrouding soft shoulders, faint lines of a sillhoutte. And he wants to talk to him, he realizes. He _wants_ to seek him out. He justifies it as simply being curious. What's Heaven up to these days, what's their next big plan on how to properly muddle mortal happenings? There's no sense in forcing humans to do good, Crowley's decided. It's a mission doomed to failure. Humans, as he's come to discover, will often do whatever they please when given a choice. An unfortunate truth for both sides.

Aziraphale, once again, is stuck between being politely curt, and doing absolutely nothing to push Crowley away. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Aziraphale actually _liked_ his company. Even when Crowley lays jabs at him, repeatedly going out of his way to question the Almighty - something he knows will drive the angel wild to no end - he doesn't send him away. He doesn't even ask for him to tone it down. Rather, he only defends himself. Quietly, if a bit stern. It makes Crowley wonder what's separated him so fiercely from his other holy kin. After all, Heaven functions as a resolute hive mind. Whatever the people up at the top say is taken as absolute truth. And they, generally speaking, are really taking shorthand notes from God, paraphrasing her as well as they can.

The rain starts again. Aziraphale's eyes flicker over with noteworthy discomfort. He shivers in the cold, and looks as if he's regretting something to a dreadful extent. Crowley considers dragging it out of him, poking and prodding until Aziraphale will withstand it no longer. So long as he gets it off of his chest, that ought to be a good deed in the long run. Though Crowley isn't supposed to do good. Crowley was shaped into something wicked, it's his duty to strive for spreading the same wickedness amongst others. That's the only way to avenge himself, and all the other victims of Heaven's folly.

Which is why, in the end, when he can't seem to shake the idea from his head, he justifies himself by saying he's being _awfully_ cruel to the angel by pressuring him into revealing his stress. Prickling at his steadily increasing irritation as he follows him the whole way home. Asking him questions all the while, about what he _really_ thinks of the Almighty's brutal plans, if he's fully on board with Heaven's constant acceptance of whatever she decides, etcetera etcetera. Eventually, Aziraphale cracks from it. Just as Crowley had been expecting.

"If you must force me to admit it, it certainly has been bothering me. But I can't cast judgements on her plan, I assume she must - she _must_ know what she's doing!" he bursts out, standing at the entryway to his house. The door remains only half open, Aziraphale won't step inside with Crowley still lingering. _Too polite for your own good,_ Crowley wants to tell him. But there's no sense in riling him up any further. Now's the best part, after all. Now he's going to actually have a chance at a genuine conversation with him. To know what thoughts he's truly harboring behind that carefully crafted, divine shell of rhetoric.

"Surely, you could talk to her somehow, let her know how you feel about all this." Crowley grins, a viper-toothed, knowing smile. "That is, unless she isn't taking calls anymore... seems a bit distant, if you ask me."

Aziraphale's disposition softens. He seems to loose some of the hardwired, tense guard he's kept up with Crowley. His voice drops in volume, as if shushing himself from any unseen spectators. And he speaks quite mournfully, "She's only spoken to me once. After the sword bit, you remember."

"Then how can she expect you to uphold her beliefs, if she isn't even giving you the time of day?" Crowley peels back more of him, hoping to egg on some sliver of rebellion from Aziraphale. It's exciting, he realizes, to plant the seed of doubt in somebody else's mind. Especially when it already seems to be sown, it just needs a bit of help getting along.

"Please," Aziraphale whispers. "I don't want to talk about it. Not out here, at least."

There's a certain sort of silence shared between them. Understanding and kind, apologetic on Crowley's end. He doesn't feel so keen on his previous efforts anymore. Instead, he nods his head without another word, and leaves Aziraphale on his own. Looking to the ground as he traces his steps in the pouring rain.

He shouldn't feel guilty, he tells himself. And he doesn't. Demons don't feel guilt. That's a simple fact of life, just as the sky is blue, and he and Aziraphale most definitely don't get along.

(Yet.)

-

Rome is what really gets to him. He'd been nothing but bitter the last time they spoke. In Golgotha, the both of them bearing witness to mortal brutality. _'It was your lot that put him up there.'_ Well, that wasn't particularly necessary, was it? He didn't _have_ to say that. He still doesn't know why he did.

(Except he isn't willing to admit that, truthfully, he's fully aware of what brought the scorn about. It had been antagonizing to see so pure-hearted a human suffer a fate all too similar to his. Suffering, left to rot in the name of God's glory. How could she send her only son to die? And how could Heaven stand by, watching it happen? How are _they_ still considered the good, holy people here?)

He shouldn't have taken it out on Aziraphale. And he's intending to make it up to him next time they meet. Really, he'll scour whatever city they happen to be in the whole day, just looking for the best place to have a nibble at. He wants to make things good between them. He wants to _try,_ seeing how there's no sense in avoiding the only other immortal being you're stuck with on Earth for the next indeterminable amount of centuries.

But circumstances make themselves as unfortunate as possible. His day turns into a free heckling session as news of his last temptation's failure sweeps over Hell, and Dagon finds time out of her busy schedule to scold him personally. He's only in Rome for a brief escape from it all, a chance at gobbling down whatever doesn't burn and will get his mind off things for a while. But then - then _Azirphale_ makes an appearance. And he's forced to be amenable, _polite_ to the angel. It isn't easy. It's not in his nature to pave over his own feelings for the sake of others.

But Aziraphale smiles at him, and he keeps trying so very hard. ( _'Salutaria,'_ spoken with a raised glass, a welcoming glance. Crowley can do little but submit to his wishes, passing his flavor off as something easy to swallow. He clinks his glass with Aziraphale's, listening to everything he has to say. It's calming, he realizes, to listen to an angel speak. He shouldn't be allowing himself the comfort, but nobody's around to see. Nobody cares enough to stop him anyways.

"I've never eaten an oyster." he says, curious as to what Aziraphale finds so delightful about them.

"Oh, well let me tempt you to - er - " 

Aziraphale's cheeks pinken, and he looks positively mortified. Crowley almost wants to brush the shame away, to tell him it's alright, he's done nothing wrong. He has to wonder where that urge is coming from. How odd.

"No, that's your job, isn't it?" he mumbles, fidgeting with his hands. Crowley can't believe how willing he is to tell him _not if you don't want it to be._ He can't believe the gentle shape this angel has molded him to match the form of. The taste of mead thickens on his tongue, lightly alcoholic, and Crowley doesn't believe he'll ever be able to get enough of it down. Not with Aziraphale beside him, looking like that. Clad in crisp, pale white, shining his perfect teeth and twinkling eyes. The absolute _bastard._ He must know what he's doing, musn't he? Perhaps this is some new ploy from Heaven, a way to trick the damned back into serving their former master. He'll never play kind to God ever again, not even while Aziraphale eats up every word he tosses from his wary mouth. Not even while he's so _clearly_ interested in him. Interested in a certain way, a manner in which Crowley can't dare put a name to. He doesn't mention it. Not even to himself.

(He tries not to think about it as well as he can.)

-

The Arrangement falls into place without cushioning for landing. Aziraphale keeps him at a distance, because what else can he do? Calling him to the Globe, speaking in all sorts of cheery tones about how they'll blend in with the crowds there. And yet, refusing to depart when it turns out to be less populated than expected. Crowley has an inkling of suspicion that he may have just wanted to force him into watching another half hour of Shakespeare at his side. Either way, he isn't particularly troubled by it.

He talks him into going to Edinborough, and though Aziraphale has heart enough to appear irritated, he doesn't refuse. Rather, he seems unusually amenable. Still clasping his hands tightly together, pressed to his abdomen as if in self defense. His eyes detract from Crowley up to the sky, pausing to stare and _watch,_ just making sure. He's always making sure, it seems. Crowley wants to tell him he's too paranoid. He keeps the thought to himself.

There's something undeniably disarming about Aziraphale. The way he's wriggled his way into Crowley's very core, getting him wrapped around his finger. All he has to do is ask, and Crowley will give. Crowley can't stop giving when it comes to him. The topic of Hamlet comes around, and Aziraphale's eyes gleam in anticipation of what he already knows Crowley's going to do for him. He doesn't even have a chance to open his mouth. He pleads with a look alone, and Crowley agrees before he can stop himself. Sloughing off any gratitude from the angel with a poorly faked annoyance.

He realizes, quite unfortunately, that after their covert little meeting has reached its end, he still doesn't want to leave. Not with Aziraphale giving him those enamored baby blues. He's enthralling to be around, his very presence makes Crowley's stomach bubble over with a feeling so severe it hurts. It travels up to his chest, burrowing a hole for itself between his ribs, and planting roots there to fester. They grow right into his heart, letting nothing go untouched. There'll be blossoms sprouting from his fingertips soon enough; his blood will turn to rosewater. His whole body has become an altar indebted to Aziraphale's worship, devoted to him as he is. 

He doesn't know why he's let it get this bad. And more than that - why he isn't stopping it now.

But he still can't call it love. That'd be admitting things far too early.

(He loves him, he loves him, he _loves_ him so.)

-

"I suppose i should say thank you, for the, er, _rescue._ " Aziraphale's voice pours like honey to the ground, dripping in viscous form. He's intolerably polite, restraining himself from speaking anything more, and it makes Crowley sick to think there may be things he wants to say - but _won't._

"Don't say that," he grumbles, snarling more to hold back his own indiscretion than to scold Aziraphale's. There's so much heat in the stone-walled room, with little air to compensate. Crowley thinks he must be on the verge of choking, stuffed full of all the oxygen Aziraphale shares with him. He wants to scramble back, wants to give himself space to get his bearings, but that'd be irresponsible. He's helping Aziraphale out of a rather tricky situation here, after all. It's his duty to be the cool-tempered, suave savior. All the better of a hero to have a good composure. And, though he wouldn't dare say it aloud, he quite likes playing the hero for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale rubs at the tender flesh formerly constricted by his shackles, and has the _audacity_ to look even more pitiful than before. Crowley barely twists his own metaphorical leash in time to resist soothing Aziraphale's skin himself. It'd only be a gentle touch, imposing a small miracle. Nobody would ever see, nobody would ever know. He could touch him, just this once. Warm against soft, feeling Aziraphale's wrists as if they were a diluted sanctum. He wants to bring them to his lips, kiss and cherish what has never been offered the appreciation it so desperately deserves. But Aziraphale wouldn't like that. Aziraphale wouldn't _dare._

Sometimes, against his own will, he wishes Aziraphale would tread the line with him, instead of avoiding it entirely.

"Well," Aziraphale starts, rising to his feet. "if I must be quiet about it..."

And like a reprieve sent from Heaven itself, basked in the scent of a lemon drop sun, and the blue silk sky, Aziraphale kisses him. Careful upon his cheek, wafting the heat of his breath against Crowley's trembling skin. His hands reach out, resting on Crowley's shoulder to balance himself. And it's perfect, it's wordless, it's beyond anything Crowley might have imagined when pressing his knuckles to his lips, lost to passive idealism in which Aziraphale's mouth was in the place of his own. His lungs fill with Spring itself, daisies sprouting in his chest. There's a breeze that cools the rushing blood inside his veins, and he calms from it. He can sit still, allowing himself the pleasure of simply being, as opposed to taking any sort of active role.

"Nobody can hear what doesn't make a sound, yes?" Aziraphale giggles. 

Crowley can hardly believe him. The absolute brat, spoiled to the core. Insistent on getting what he wants, and finding loopholes for anything that doesn't come easily. So naughty, so wicked, so _good._ His good angel. How lucky he is to have him here on Earth, instead of any other.

He grins, and snorts a laugh to match Aziraphale's. "Excellent logic you've got there, angel."

"Thank you. Now, what would you say about lunch, my dear?"

Crowley's smile can only grow wider. "Sounds perfect. Especially if we can do that again."

Aziraphale takes his hand, letting their fingers comb together. "I just might find that possible, should you manage to keep your mouth shut a second time."

"Of course," Crowley leans into him, feeling warmer than he has his entire life. "anything for you. I'll always do anything for you."

And he means it. Satan help a demon who can't tell a lie, but when it comes to Aziraphale, he only ever tells him the truth. 

(What Aziraphale doesn't say, is that he wouldn't have it any other way.)


End file.
